


Standards are Falling Everywhere

by Quakey (Quak3y)



Category: Cable and Deadpool
Genre: Come Eating (in a really weird way), Comics cablepool (Nathan Summers/Wade Wilson) not movieverse, Consentacles, M/M, Not trying to follow any canon timeline / not canon compliant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sounding, Tentacles, joking mention of vore, porn with character exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 07:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18567139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quak3y/pseuds/Quakey
Summary: Wade thinks Nate’s TO arm is sexy. He also thinks it would beeven more sexyif Nate did the wiggly TO tentacle thing on command.





	Standards are Falling Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Did you check the tags? Tentacles? Sounding? I don’t want to hear any complaints that you weren’t warned.

With the two of them, sometimes all it takes is something as innocent as lounging on the couch together to have some very un-innocent consequences.

It’s Nate’s couch, so it’s relatively clean and acceptably wide and deep by his standards, so there’s room for him to stretch out from one corner, with Wade loose and relaxed between his legs, reclining against his chest.The coffee table in front of them is covered with scattered styrofoam remains of take-out and empty beer cans. Nate’s techno-organic arm is stretched along the back of the couch, with his human hand resting easily on Wade’s hip, sometimes stirring to stroke down his shoulder or arm.

Wade hums happily when it happens, although his eyes never leave the TV and his hand never sets down the remote. Sometimes he squirms a little, not because he doesn’t like where he is, but because wiggling his shoulders and back let him settle a little further, a little more intimately against Nate’s very bare chest, feel the warmth of muscle and the unyielding hardness of metal. All Nate is wearing is a pair of sleep pants, possibly because the future is shameless about nudity (or partial nudity), or possibly just because. Wade has on a t-shirt and sweats because while he’s comfortable enough around Nate to put some arm and face and foot skin on display, he doesn’t want to bare more than that.

It’s comfortable and easy, yet loaded at the same time, an electric charge waiting to find a path to ground. Because while neither of them is acting on it right now, it’s kind of a given this is going to lead to sex. When Nate’s fingers start tracing gentle circles that move from thigh to the muscles below Wade’s navel, no goal or purpose in the action except to cause a happy noise somewhere deep in Wade’s chest, the prospect certainly moves a little closer.

Wade hooks his free hand back over his shoulder, behind Nate’s neck. He lets his fingers explore the various lines of tendon and muscle and metal, feel the solid outline of the base of his skull under the soft brush of hair, feel Nate’s pulse slow and steady under his fingertips.

On screen a cultured British voice is describing the octopus that is exploring crannies and crevices between rock pools, its red tentacles coiling and extending, probing for a meal.

“Why does your T.O. do stuff like that?” Wade asks suddenly.

“Do what?”

Nate’s hand smoothes higher as he waits for clarification, settling warm and flat on the middle of Wade’s chest. Not unlike the starfish the camera has now focused on, at least as far as flat goes. The camera angle changes, and now there’s a close-up look at the underside of the starfish, thousands of tiny sucker legs swaying and questing in waves of coordinated motion.

Wade actually shivers. Nate’s not sure what that’s about.

“Or like that?”

“I don’t think my arm has ever looked like an octopus or a starfish, if that’s what you mean.”

Wade glances away from the screen long enough to give him a disbelieving look.

“Are you going senile? Forgetting large chunks of your canon? Big ropey T.O. things coming off your arm like octopus tentacles? Little wavy bits breaking out all over it?”

“That . . . does happen occasionally,” Nate admits reluctantly. It’s not a source of pride. Rather the opposite: most often it’s associated with low points and a shameful lack of control, near brushes with death and mistakes to set right. They leave nothing but a hollow, guilty feeling.

Wade continues, not noticing or not caring about the other’s chagrin.

“I know it wasn’t _you_ you in that alternate reality thing on Providence, but I told you about the T.O. version of you, right? Where the baby alien won and you were all metal and tentacles?”

“You mentioned it. I believe you said I . . . tried to infect you? I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” He gets another disbelieving look, this one longer. Wade actually looks away from the sight of the starfish disgorging its stomach into a mussel to digest it. “Why sorry? Metal you groped me all over before getting mind rapey. Not gonna lie, it felt good, even the Borg ‘you will be assimilated’ stuff.”

That is not what Nate is expecting, and he spends a good few seconds blinking stupidly down at Wade’s upturned face. Wade meanwhile, never one to be able to stop his body from very clearly communicating what his mind is thinking about, idly slides his fingers along the T.O. cables on the side of Nate’s neck, fingers gently tracing the regular, shallow lines.

“You _liked_ it?”

“Well, it couldn’t kill me or infect me since my healing factor was working, and the groping was kind of sexy, even if a bit noncon, so really . . .” Wade trails off at the mix of thunderstruck and horrified he’s seeing in Nate’s face. “Anyway, I just wondered, why the little, wavy bits when you’re not in control?” Wade actually puts down the remote so he can wiggle his fingers to illustrate.

“If not controlled, it wants to explore its environment. Find organic matter to absorb and assimilate.” Nate’s mouth feels dry and he’s not quite sure why. He’s used to talking about his T.O. It’s been a part of him longer than he has memories. As far as he’s concerned, there’s never been a time when he _hasn’t_ had metal instead of flesh on one side.

He’s grown used to discussing the T.O., dispassionately, burying discomfort or shame or anger. The Askani, his parents, doctors, those closest to him who understood: when they talk about the T.O., it has always been a medical condition, a curse, an infection, a death sentence, a menace, an obstacle. There are others--friends, acquaintances, teammates, enemies--who don’t understand. They dismiss it as trivial, as manageable, something he’s obviously controlling and therefore everything is fine.

This is different somehow. Without judgment. Without dismissal. Less clinical. More personal.

He doesn’t remember anyone ever calling the silver spilling down from neck to fingertips ‘sexy.’

“When you’re in control, it can’t move? Or you don’t let it move?”

“I . . . choose not to.”

“But why?” Wade pulls Nate’s infected hand off the back of the couch, holding the wrist in one hand while gently and inquiringly tracing the overlapping metal ridges on palm and fingers.

Nate takes a deep breath. It’s taking rigid self-control not to tear his hand out of Wade’s. Usually when acquaintances or friends or lovers touch the T.O., they’re clearly thinking of it as part of him. But the way Wade is stroking right now, curious and intent, he’s fairly sure the other man is actually aware of it as the flesh-eating organism it truly is. Trust Wade to be utterly at ease with the gruesome and the macabre.

“It’s aggressive. Dangerous.”

“Yeah, so am I. You still keep me around.”

“I’m human. Even if this arm isn’t anymore, I can make it _look_ human.”

Wade tilts his head to one side. Looks shrewdly back and forth between the silver under his fingers and Nate’s face.

“You doin’ that for everyone else, to make ‘em comfortable? Or for yourself?”

The breath Nate sucks in is involuntary, and this time he does yank his hand free, although then he’s left clenching it, nowhere he wants to set it.

“Wade, I’ve spent my _entire life_ battling it. If I choose to make it human-looking, trust me, _I’m_ not fooled.”

“Come on, you’re telling me you’ve never used the wiggly version of it when you were in control, just because? Picked a lock with it? Fished something out from underneath the refrigerator?”

“Sometimes,” he says, keeping his voice neutral through sheer control and willpower, “it can be useful in its more mobile form.”

“Show me.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Nate, I let you see this living shit show,” Wade viciously jabs at one of his wrists with a finger, “all the time. You keep telling me it's okay, it doesn't bother you. So either quit with the reluctant act and show me your freaky metal virus tentacles or admit you have double standards that'd make the Republicans proud.”

It's tempting to push Wade off and leave. Except Nate isn't _quite_ enough of a hypocrite to ignore that Wade has a point. He _does_ frequently reassure him that he doesn't find his skin off-putting or ugly, and it's the truth. Nathan sees the effects of unwilling mutation as not fundamentally different from those of a natural X gene, the scarred ripple of skin as a mark of strength and survival, not shame.

He feels an unexpected wave of empathy, because he understands how Wade must feel, his desire to hide his skin and blend in instead of being singled out and feared as contagious and as _other_.

He slows his breathing and closes his eyes until he can feel unruly emotion calm, pushing aside fear and flight and conflict.

He feels Wade fidgeting in his arms, fingers tapping on a couch cushion, but Wade waits while he gathers himself.

“You really want to see?” Nate asks, eyes still closed.

He feels two hands close gently over his fist, tugging it down to Wade's lap, and he relaxes enough to let it happen. Fingers trace again in a warm trail, no hesitancy or fear in them.

“Yes.”

Nate can't read the contents of Wade's mind, but he isn't above opening his shields and skimming at available surface emotions. He feels only curiosity. Impatience. A hint of arousal, and the fact that he finds himself _liking_ provoking such a reaction makes heat rise to his cheeks.

He steadies himself and lets both his fist and eyes open. On the television, a sea anemone very slowly unfurls its tentacles from a tight, compressed ball, revealing itself. Vibrant jade-green strands wave gently back and forth in the rocking of the surf, outstretched and searching.

He slowly unfurls the T.O. as well.

Sections of what others think of as his skin unwind from forearm to wrist in broad, silver ribbons.

He hears Wade’s breath quicken, and the other reaches out, slowly with little pauses, like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal. When he closes the distance he runs a finger gently up the side of one silver strip. Nate doesn’t really think, just reacts to the input of flesh touching exposed living metal, and the bit of T.O. whips lightning fast around Wade’s wrist and hand, ending up with Wade’s hand firmly grasped, the tip of the ribbon nestled in Wade’s palm and twitching slightly across the softer skin there.

Nate hisses at the feeling, warm and organic. _Soft, prey, edible_ is the feeling he gets from his T.O. nerves. It’s not in words, of course, but that’s the way the T.O. moves through the world, the things that dictate its survival, and so that is what drives it, what lights up its nerves, delicious and defenseless become tactile. Nate tries not to touch people with it when it’s like this, only inanimate objects, what can’t be infected or hurt, so he doesn’t have to feel these alien impulses on human nerves.

Wade doesn’t flinch from the contact. In fact he reaches with his other hand, runs his fingers through the other strips from base to tip, tugging gently.

A shudder runs through Nate’s entire body. He still has his telepathic shields down and he’s honestly not sure who’s more intrigued or confused right now, himself or Wade. He’s getting flashes of curiosity and tactile sensation from Wade, but he’s mostly ignoring it because he’s overwhelmed by the indescribable feeling of Wade running his fingers through the _strands of his arm_.

“Oh wow,” Wade breathes.

Nate really ought to have expected it, given that it’s Wade, but yet he’s still surprised by the continued and even _increasing_ arousal he feels filtering in from Wade’s surface thoughts. It’s not a clear picture, nothing is ever clear with Wade’s mind, but it’s flashes of lust and a breathless, anticipatory feeling that makes it _very_ obvious what Wade thinks of Nate’s terminal illness in its natural form.

So. They’re really doing this.

With an almost grim determination, Nate starts unwinding more fibers from the ‘muscles’ under his ‘skin’, anywhere from finger-thick to wire-thin, slowly reaching out to wrap them around Wade’s fingers, his wrists, his forearms. He has to go slowly; he’s not used to commanding so much of the fiber of his T.O. to move and certainly not to commanding it this way.

“Oh wow,” Wade repeats himself. “Okay. Yeah. Holy shit. You have metal tentacles. That’s so . . . so . . . okay, so hentai, honestly. Can you make them dick-shaped? They’re almost always dick-shaped in hentai.”

“No,” Nate says shortly. He already can’t believe he’s giving Wade this much; he is not going to start shaping the pieces of the T.O. into phallic shapes on top of it.

“That’s okay. Sometimes they’re skinny too, so the tentacle monster can get about a hundred of them in. I can deal. I can _totally_ deal.”

“Don’t say that,” Nate says through gritted teeth, stomach clenching at Wade's choice of words.

Wade glances up from staring in amazement at the silver mass that’s covered his hands and forearms, writhing slowly. He blinks.

“What? . . . Oh, sorry. Ix-nay on the onster-may, got it.”

Nate sighs. He doesn’t want to ask. He really needs to ask. “Wade.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you really want me to . . . touch you? With these?”

“Do I want you to . . .” Wade wiggles and turns to more effectively stare at him in melodramatic horror. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Nathan Summers? I _know_ he knows me better than this. Nate. _You have sexy metal tentacles right now!_ I want those things all over me! I want you to flip up my school girl skirt and tentacle rape me so hard I scream! I want the ao3 tag of the day to be ‘fill all the holes’! _Yeah, I want you to touch me!_ ”

Nate can’t help the smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, because when Wade puts it that way--ignoring the parts that Nate can’t make heads or tails of, and the morality of it, and the advisability of it--the answer does seem obvious.

Of _course_ Wade would be into something like this.

He’s still uncomfortable on a lot of levels he’s studiously ignoring. Finding ways to blow Wade’s mind--figuratively these days, not literally--until he’s nothing but a begging, over sensitized mess is something that Nate is _always_ into. He feels fairly confident he can use the T.O. without danger of it going out of control, and they can always stop if it’s becoming too difficult. He’s willing to give this a try.

Curious, he moves his flesh hand to palm Wade through his pants, just to prove to himself in another way that Wade is aroused by this.

“Mr. Stiffy says hello to you too,” Wade says with a leer.

Aroused indeed. But Nate’s not interested in having a conversation with Wade’s body parts, now or at any other time.

“Pants off,” he says, concentrating on unwinding the T.O. so Wade can do just that.

Wade scrambles up once he’s free and strips hastily and enthusiastically, shirt and pants and underwear tossed haphazardly behind him until he’s standing in front of Nate, dick thickening and flushed, seemingly torn between pouncing and not knowing quite what he wants.

Nate shoves his pants down and off one-handed, because trying to furl the T.O. now is more effort than it’s worth, but he also doesn’t want all the waving bits of metal anywhere near his own dick. Instead he holds his arm awkwardly in the air to the side, trying not to touch anything with it.

“How do you want to do this? Can you do the ‘suspended in the air by tentacles’ thing again, like when you went all metal? That’s a classic. What about--”

“Sit down again,” Nate interrupts him. “Where you were.”

“Bo-ring,” Wade complains, looking doubtful, but he settles himself between Nates thighs, relaxing back against him like Nate’s the most comfortable bean bag chair in the world. He makes sure to snuggle his ass back against Nate’s crotch as blatantly as he can. Not that it does any good at the moment, because so far Nate’s dick isn’t particularly interested in Wade’s latest fetish.

Wade makes a noncommittal sound when Nate slides his flesh-and-blood hand from navel to chest, feeling the warmth that radiates from Wade, the fast beat of his heart behind his ribs. Sometimes that pulse is more helpful for figuring out what’s going on with Wade than anything Nate can fish out of the chaotic, swirling surface of his mind, so he settles his palm over Wade’s heart and keeps it there.

With some more wiggles, Wade stretches and then hooks his hand around the back of Nate’s neck again, fingers and thumb restlessly retracing T.O. lines.

Nate focuses and raises a T.O. . . . he hesitates to think of them as ‘tentacles,’ and yet he understands why Wade calls them that. He raises a thick T.O. _tentacle_ out of his shoulder, then slips it around Wade’s wrist twice, rippling and malleable, pulling Wade’s arm gently upward and backward, enjoying the sight of Wade’s body arching and spread out in his lap.

“Oh, bondage tentacles!” he says breathily. “That’s almost as good as ‘suspended in air.’”

Wade’s heart beat speeds up under his palm and Nate sees his cock twitch upward.

Nate slowly wraps his left fist--metal and hard and so near to the gently undulating pieces of his forearm--around that eager cock.

“That’s it, Daddy, touch me in all the good places,” Wade moans theatrically, then sucks in a startled breath as one-by-one the lazily waving tentacles bend and turn and writhe to find his flesh. Nate goes slowly, concentrating in the way he’s had to learn since childhood, controlling the T.O. not so much as a single entity but as an army, as a battlefield, a hundred different points of split concentration.

The T.O. is sending so many signals, so many sensations that it’s almost overwhelming. He’s feeling every single place he’s touching Wade, every single piece of feedback on _soft_ or _warm_ or _defenseless_ or _prey food edible_. The feelings of hunger, of a tactile sensation of deliciousness, he roughly banishes--perhaps that is easier because his human mind has no analogy for these desires. The other feelings, those that delight in touching and taking and invading, . . . those are harder to ignore.

He wraps several tentacles and ribbons around Wade’s hip and side. Then he wiggles other, thinner ones between Wade’s thighs to drag gently across his entrance. Wade quickly parts his legs as far as he can.

“Come on, Nate, probe me like I'm at Area 51! ‘Course, hentai tentacles are usually dripping slime and stuff, but it’s okay, I can take it dry.”

Good point. Nate takes his flesh hand off Wade's chest long enough to fumble in the couch cushions and pull up the lube he'd stashed there earlier.

“Oh, thinking ahead? You big boy scout. I’m going to get you a merit badge for safe sex.”

“That’s _completely_ inappropriate,” Nate grates out, fumbling to thumb open the tube and squirting a giant, viscous puddle all over Wade’s abs.

“Uuuuuh, either you’re confused about where I want to get penetrated--”

Wade cuts off with a gasp as the tentacles between his legs pull back all at once, slither through the lube, and then one by one start diving between his legs again.

“Oh. _Oh_. Nope, you’re not confused, my bad, that is _exactly_ where I wanted to get penetrated,” he gasps. His hips try to lift but are stopped by the metal grip on his dick. His free hand flails a bit, trying to get a grip on Nate’s thigh so he can push upward, but Nate just grunts, squirts more lube all over Wade’s cock and his fist. Then he unceremoniously drops the tube and gently captures Wade’s scrambling wrist, tugging it upward. It’s not aggressive or mean, just inexorable and firm, pulling until the wrist is next to Nate’s neck. The tentacle that’s already holding one of Wade’s wrists slithers, lengthening, running behind his neck to smoothly wrap several times around the other wrist as well, leaving him stretched helplessly against his chest.

“You _were_ listening about the bondage tentacles!” Wade gasps happily, squirming and flexing to feel the grip on his wrists constrict.

Nate just growls, far too distracted to respond. It’s like feeling Wade under his fingers, if only he had ten hands and a hundred fingers. It’s feeling in different ways, touching in ways he didn’t know were possible. He wraps more long ribbons of T.O. around Wade’s torso like a hug and a caress together, feeling, smelling, tasting Wade’s sweat and skin through them. He raises smaller tentacles, wire thin, and traces and twines and explores every line between muscles, every curve. He feels the bud of a nipple and wraps a wire tight around it and hears Wade gasp. But mostly he feels Wade warm and soft around the tendrils he’s sliding deeper into his body.

The thing about the T.O. is that it’s not aware. It’s an infection, a parasitic organism, a colonizer. It works on instinct and aggression. It’s driven by that instinct to find organic organisms and invade, bury itself in them as a way to infect them, consume. And while it’s grafted on to him, the T.O. isn’t Nate. Nate isn’t the T.O. Early in his life he learned to take sensation from it, to accept the alien input and find a human way to interpret what it feels. He’s made it human-like, kept himself human. Kept it in check. Kept himself sane.

In contrast, this is overwhelming and alien. Wade’s certainly put Nate’s metal fingers in his mouth, and Nate has put those same fingers in very _intimate_ places. But that was while Nate was exercising iron control over the T.O., forcing it to the most human forms and sensations possible. That was strange, different, interesting. Arousing.

_This_ is with it moving freely in its natural form, his control loosened a small but crucial amount. Being inside Wade’s body like this feels like nothing he’s ever experienced. Every tendril he unwinds from his arm, that he slides through the slick on Wade’s abs and down into the heat of his body is a burst of pleasurable sensation, overwhelming, a fulfilled need.

He wants _more_.

Instead he tries to collect what human coherency he has left. Wade’s chest is rising and falling in gasps under his hand and he can feel his heart beating faster. He focuses on this feeling, of lungs hungrily pulling in air, of flesh fingertips over human heartbeat. Of Wade’s skin pressed against his chest, the heat of the other’s body. Bending his head allows him to feel Wade’s textured scalp against his lips.

He stops himself from adding more tendrils to what is already inside Wade, trying to savor and relax and clear his head a bit. So he flexes what is there instead, or what he thinks of as flexing, what he would do with a muscle, contracting and relaxing it. Apparently with the T.O. fibers, that translates into constricting, thicker and harder, then lengthening again.

Wade squeals.

Then he exclaims, “Oh, you have _got_ to do that again!”

Instead Nate looks down and sees his hand still wrapped around Wade’s dick, unmoving. (He also sees his arm, which is looking less and less like his and more like that starfish’s, so many swaying threads already ravelled out into their own individual fibers instead of spun together into the thick cords of his arm.) He starts slowly jacking Wade’s lube-slick cock, sliding all the way to the root and back to the head, twisting and squeezing just the way he knows Wade likes it. The movement pulls at the tendrils that are disappearing between Wade’s legs, and Wade whimpers and bucks his hips.

Nate feels his lips tilt upward in a smile against Wade’s scalp. Something about using his T.O. arm like an actual _arm_ is steadying, reminding him he’s still mostly human and that _he’s_ the one in control. He watches his hand on Wade’s cock. At the same time, he feels with the tendrils bunched together in the tight press of Wade’s ass, how Wade is quivering and bucking slightly upwards with each stroke. He flexes the T.O. again, harder this time.

Wade moans.

“Alright?” he asks.

“Oh yeah, yeah, definitely alright.” Wade says, voice unsteady in a way that lets Nate know just how ‘alright.’ Wade tries to wiggle, but only succeeds in hooking one leg over Nates, on the side where his thigh _isn’t_ covered in a silver net holding him in place, opening himself further. “I can take a hell of a lot more. Just sayin’,” he gasps.

Nate grunts. He feels his own erection, hard against the cleft of Wade’s ass and the small of his back, but it seems unimportant. This is about Wade. Wade and his boundary pushing and his blasted questions and his requests that Nate finds himself humoring even against his better judgment.

It’s about feeling him in a different way.

A drop of precum builds at the tip of Wade’s cock, and Nate slides his thumb over it, smearing it over the slit.

He has an idea.

“Were you serious about that ‘fill all the holes’ thing?” he asks against Wade’s ear, voice hoarse.

It takes Wade a moment and then, “ _Oh fuck me._ I mean that literally. _Yes._ _All_ the holes. You could probably shove tentacles up my nose and I’d love it.”

Nate makes a face. “Ugh. No.”

“Got it, no weird nose-fucking kinks for you. You're so vanilla for a tentacle mooooon---man. Tentacle man. Only the stereotypical holes then, please, and make it snappy.”

As usual, Nate isn’t sure how Wade can keep jabbering like this when he sounds like all his higher brain functions and half his air supply have left the building, leaving only reaction and need to keep house. It’s like Wade’s mouth is hooked directly to his lower level brain functions, bypassing the conscious controls most people put on their speech. It’s one of several reasons Nate never tells Wade to shut up unless there’s a compelling, external reason. There’s a comforting honesty to the way he continues talking when any other human would be overcome, whether by fear or pain or ecstacy or anger.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, and slowly extrudes four thin tentacles from the back of his knuckles. He traces them teasingly over and around the head of Wade’s lube-slick cock, dipping one after another shallowly into the slit.

“Won’t be able to tell you anything if you fill all my holes like you’re supposed to,” Wade gasps. “Also, who knew this author had such freaky kinks.”

As usual, Nate takes the parts that make sense and ignores those that don’t.

“Don’t blame someone else. You’re the one that asked for it,” he says, and worms one of the tendrils into the head of Wade’s cock.

Both of them groan, Nate low and drawn-out, Wade high and desperate.

With gentle pressure, Nate pushes it further inside. He’s not paying much attention when Wade starts babbling, something about the freaky depths of Pornhub and ‘even better than issue sixteen,’ not when he’s going deeper, when he's feeling the _inside_ of Wade’s cock, feeling the pressure of his own hand on himself from the _outside_ of that cock.

Rational thought is suddenly a very nebulous concept, glimpsed only far away and hazy through a mirage of sex and need.

He slithers the other thin tendrils through the still-slick mess on Wade’s stomach and one-by-one works them in next to the first as he slowly strokes. Wade's cock is rock hard and darkly flushed and he moans like he's being gutshot as each thin tendril presses in. Nate sprouts more and more from his forearm, anywhere from pencil-thin to finger-thick, snaking them wetly across Wade’s stomach and down to join those already inside his body. A few he wraps around the base of Wade’s cock or his balls or winds around his thighs to hold him open.

Wade is chanting the same pleas and profanity over and over, each repetition getting higher pitched and more frantic, apparently even his impressive verbal abilities finally shut down by sensation, so Nate sprouts a thicker tentacle from his upper arm and winds it across to shove it into Wade’s mouth. It doesn’t stop the moans and other frantic, pleasured sounds, but it does put an end to the words.

Then Nate gives in. Loses himself to the feeling of being buried in Wade’s body. Pressing more of himself inside. Writhing and contracting and releasing simply because it is indescribably pleasurable. Cock rubbing against Wade’s back, forgotten but adding to the stimuli. It’s sex, fucking into a partner in as many ways as he can, drawing Wade closer, listening to him moan. It’s the virus, seeking inside, seeking organic, writhing deeper. Burying himself.

It’s unclear how long they’re like this, how long he spends like this. It might be ten minutes. It might be hours. Time is relatively meaningless; only pleasure remains.

It’s Wade struggling and biting at the tentacle in his mouth and the pulse under his hand speeding fast and fluttery brings him back to himself, alerts him that he’s choking his partner. He pulls back the tentacle in Wade’s mouth and Wade sucks in breath, panting through his nose, whimpering as he clenches and comes with the rush of oxygen and a particularly violent pulse of the tentacles in his ass.

Nate is pulled into orgasm too, by Wade’s body and mind, psychic feedback shouting to him in ecstacy, Wade’s body clenching around him, Wade’s breath hot on him, Wade’s come pushing past him.

The tentacles and tendrils and ribbons all spasm and thrash as Nate spills against Wade’s back, then gradually moving more sluggishly, and finally they, and the rest of Nate, go limp. After a few seconds the thickest tentacle slides out of Wade’s mouth with a wet, flopping sound.

“Oh em gee that was amazing,” Wade gasps hoarsely.

Nate doesn't reply, just closes his eyes. Breathes. Works on pulling himself back together. Literally.

He slips free of Wade a bit at a time, by ones and twos and tens. Each piece ripples, surface distorting briefly as the T.O. does what it's best at: absorbing and converting organic molecules into simple molecular building blocks and cleaning itself in the process.

“Ew. Are your tentacles _eating_ the lube?”

Nate groans. “After what we just did, _that’s_ what you’re squeamish about?”

He lets go of Wade’s wrists and is rewarded by a lot of happy squirming and turning over, lips pressing against his and a very enthusiastic tongue invading his mouth.

They’re both covered in fluids. After a moment of hesitation, he swipes a couple of the larger tentacles across Wade’s back and ass, letting the T.O. absorb the mess of come and lube. He doesn’t expect just how good it feels, how good it _tastes_ , how much the T.O. _likes_ consuming something so organic. It’s enough to make his dick twitch, crosswired pleasure circuits translating pleasure from the T.O. into human pleasure. He’s wiggling a couple more tendrils between them before he can think better of it, wrapping around both softening cocks and sweeping across their stomachs for every last drop.

Wade pulls back from seemingly trying to do a tongue impression of a tentacle down Nate’s throat to push himself up on his arms. He stares down at the silver cables eagerly nosing around between them like a dog looking for scraps under a table.

“That . . . is weirdly hot. Does your arm do vore? I’m not saying I’m into that, but I’m not saying I’m _not_ into it either. Although the author doesn’t want to go any further down this embarrassing rabbit hole of weird sexual kinks they didn’t even know they were into, so I guess we’d have to do it off page.”

Nate makes a noncommittal noise, finally withdrawing the hungry tendrils along with the rest. It’s a slow furling, twisting and winding the cables together again, pulling them back into his arm and shoulder and wrist to rebuild the human shape. As the last of the strands settles, he directs the ribbon-like outer skin closed as well, wrapping and sealing until no sign of their exceedingly deviant activities remains.

Physical satiation wars with a suddenly clearer head. What they’ve just done, letting the T.O. loose like that, even if it was still controlled-- _mostly controlled_ whispers a too-honest thought--it goes against everything every one of his teachers has drummed into his head, everything he’s learned over the years. It’s a violation of his principles, of safety, of sanity.

It was stupid as hell.

He tips his head back, eyes closed again, breathing shallowly through his nose.

Wade breaks through his thoughts by saying, “Please tell me you’re not freaking out? I hope you’re not freaking out. Because I really want to do consentacles again some time.”

Nate opens his eyes. “What?” he asks hoarsely.

“Consentacles. You know. Consensual? Tentacles? Consentacles!”

Nate groans, throwing his human arm over his face. As usual with Wade, he’s wondering what he's gotten himself into.

“I just violated every bit of training and common sense I have, Wade. I think it’s normal to be ‘freaking out.’”

Wade flops on top of him, causing an involuntary huff of breath.

“You didn’t hurt me,” he says. “Don’t think you _could_ hurt me with that stuff even if you tried. Indestructible, remember?”

“Not the point.”

“Your tentacles are really sexy.”

“Damn it, Wade. Also not the point.”

Two hands smooth along his arms, pulling them down and coaxing them to wrap around his lower back. Nate resists for a moment, then grudgingly gives in--it’s usually an easier course of action where Wade is concerned. Nevermind that giving in is how he ended up like this in the first place, feeling like a complete fraud and a danger to others.

Wade supports himself on his elbows and strokes Nate’s shoulders and upper arms and looks thoughtful.

“Look, I’m not very good at being the voice of reason. More like the voice of _un_ reason. But let me assure you, you’re still human. Even if you have a Chuthulu-esque sex god arm that wants to eat people.”

Nate groans. “That’s not reassuring _at all_.”

“I said I wasn’t good at this! Shut up and listen anyway. You’re fine. Okay? Fine. I see no murderous light in your eyes, no strange new appendages. Your metal bits are just where they were before, and are still damn sexy if I do say so myself.”

“You frequently do.”

“Because they are,” Wade says firmly. “Come on, what do I have to do to make you okay with this?”

Nate hesitates, because how _does_ someone become ‘okay’ with using the thing that’s slowly killing them, the thing that can potentially infect others and kill them too, for pleasure?

“I don’t know. Are you ever okay with your cancer?”

“My cancer’s not sexy or useful. Just there and painful.”

“Your healing factor?”

“It’s a pain in the ass, but it’s a useful pain in the ass, and sometimes sexy. Also, how do you make an octopus laugh?”

“What?” Nate blinks. Wade’s fast topic changes still catch him off guard.

“How do you make an octopus laugh?”

“Octopuses don’t laugh.”

“It’s a joke. With ten tickles! Ten tickles, tentacles, get it?”

While Nate is still recovering from this horror of attempted humor, Wade wiggles to his feet and goes about collecting pieces of his clothing, wadding them up in his hands rather than putting them on.

“Come on, Davy Jones. Bring your currently tentacle-free butt to bed. We can fuck the regular way, no consentacles in sight, if it makes you feel better.”

Apparently this is how it’s going to be, with Wade acting as if nothing has changed except for the kinkiness of their sex life ramping up a significant number of notches.

But something important has changed, no matter what Wade thinks. Something that breaks the status quo, reforms it into something new and yet to be determined. Nate’s not sure if the result is going to be greater acceptance or greater self-loathing. Control or destruction.

But when he looks at Wade standing there expectantly and remembers how it felt to be deep inside him in so many ways, he guiltily admits to himself that they’ll _definitely_ be doing it again.

He sighs. The very near future promises a great deal of meditation on the topic of ‘what is, is.’ He doubts the Mother Askani was thinking of the inevitability of one’s lover asking to roleplay hentai movie scenarios when she came up with that saying.

Maybe he can convince himself it’s a ‘training routine’ to learn how to control the T.O. more effectively.

That thought actually makes him feel better. If there’s one thing he’s always found a peculiar comfort in, it’s a well thought out and thorough training regimen. There’s a feeling to it, of shaping destiny, forestalling the inevitable, preventing the preventable. He now has a lot of thought, meditation, and safeguards to attend to tomorrow.

He carefully decides not to mention any of this to Wade. He’s well aware he’d be thoroughly (and justifiably) mocked for it.

“Alright,” he says, heaving himself up off the couch and walking to Wade, pulling him in for a short, hard kiss. He could be responding to Wade. Or it could be to himself.

Either way, when Wade grabs his T.O. hand without hesitation and hauls him off toward the bedroom, he goes with the beginnings of a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not entirely fond of the title and reserve the right to change it if I think of something better.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> If you like it, please leave a kudo or a comment. I don’t want to think I’m all alone in my perversions. ^^’
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Davy Jones: a _Pirates of the Carribean_ reference, because tentacle face.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> _“Won’t be able to tell you anything if you fill all my holes like you’re supposed to,” Wade gasps. “Also, who knew this author had such freaky kinks.”_
> 
> Narrator: even the author didn’t realize they had such freaky kinks. *sweatdrop*
> 
> ~~~
> 
> In case you’re not up on canon Cable & Deadpool, there really was one time (in issue #16, did you guys catch that joke?) where an alternate reality version of Cable went entirely T.O. and groped Deadpool (some people would say ‘had tentacle sex with Deadpool,’ but I say there are no holes in the suit afterwards so I think it was heavy, over-the-clothes petting) . . .
> 
> . . . followed by something falling between between skull fucking and mind assimilation.
> 
> The canon we have to work with is truly amazing. XD


End file.
